


Haunted Men

by mirrorcrackd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorcrackd/pseuds/mirrorcrackd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreaming men are haunted men. -Stephen Vincent Benet</p>
<p>Sherlock has nightmares.  John's there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunted Men

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, unbrit-picked. I don't own anything, I don't receive any money for anything.

John woke up suddenly and completely. He listened to the night-time sounds, wondering what had woken him. But there was nothing but the normal London sounds: a car going past, a siren in the distance, voices as some men made their way home from the pub. He couldn’t even hear Sherlock moving around downstairs. He glanced at the clock. Half three. With a sigh he got up and dragged his dressing gown on around him. He knew that sleep would be elusive for a while, and he might as well have a cup of tea.  
  
He had just opened the cupboard to search for a clean mug, when he heard a shout coming from Sherlock’s room. He was across the kitchen and outside Sherlock’s door without consciously thinking about it. He put his hand on the door knob and hesitated. Things were still… fragile between them, since Sherlock’s return. He didn’t want to strain their relationship further by bursting in uninvited. He knocked softly, calling “Sherlock?” but there was no reply. Maybe Sherlock just talked in his sleep? Of course, he hadn’t… before. But three years had passed, and while John was thrilled to have Sherlock back in his life (if angry that he couldn’t have spared the time to let John know he was alive and just _trusted_ that John wouldn’t give him away), they were still feeling their way back to where they had been. Talking in his sleep wouldn’t be the first – or most disturbing – new habit that Sherlock had gained.  
  
John was just about to stand down and go back to his room when Sherlock shouted again. “No! John!”  
  
John flung open the door, ready to face just about anything. Sherlock was asleep on his side, but clutching his sheets in a death grip, his face screwed up as if he were in pain.  
  
“Sherlock!” he said, in a firm voice, not shouting, but not gentle, either. “Wake up! It’s just a bad dream.”  
  
Sherlock shuddered in his sleep, but didn’t wake up, so John strode over to the bed and shook his shoulder, ready to spring backward in case Sherlock tried to hit him. John had too much experience with nightmares to think that wasn’t a distinct possibility. “Sherlock. Sherlock!”  
  
Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes. John took a step backwards as Sherlock’s fist flew towards his jaw. “It’s all right, Sherlock, it was just a dream. You’re safe, you’re home, I’m here,” John repeated in a soothing tone. Sherlock backed into the corner of his bed, shaking. “Shh, Sherlock, it was just a dream.”  
  
John took a few tentative steps forward, towards the bed, carefully sitting down on the edge. Sherlock was still shaking, but he was no longer trying to melt into the wall, so John decided to count that as progress. He fell silent, waiting for Sherlock to make the next move.  
  
“John,” Sherlock croaked.  
  
“I’m here.” John reached out his hand, and placed it on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock started, but didn’t pull away. They stayed like that until Sherlock’s breathing had mostly smoothed out, and his shaking had settled into trembling.  
  
“Tea?” asked John, standing up and holding out his hand. Sherlock nodded, and stood up, ignoring John’s hand.  
  
They made their way to the kitchen in silence. Sherlock sat down at the table, while John put the kettle on and searched for mugs that were clean.  
  
“John?” Sherlock’s voice is quieter and rougher than normal. John looks over at him. His hands are tightly knotted together and one leg is franticly bouncing up and down. He looks younger than ever, with his sleep-mussed hair, until John looks at his eyes. Those eyes, so brilliant and changeable normally, are a slate-grey now, the horror of the nightmare has yet to fade from them. They are an old man’s eyes, and have seen too much of trouble.

  
“Yes?” John keeps his tone neutral.  
  
“When… you first lived here. You dreamt of Afghanistan. Repeatedly.”  
  
“Yes.” Of course Sherlock knew, although he had never mentioned it. John isn’t surprised.  
  
“Does… do they ever go away?” He looks so lost when he says this, John wants to protect him from every bad thing, to set up guard against Sherlock’s own mind, if necessary.  
  
“I… Well. Yes and no. They eventually fade. But even now I’ll occasionally get them. Usually after a particularly bad case or bad news.” When Sherlock was dead, they were his near constant companions. All the old standards of blood and fire and sand and gunshots, with the addition of Sherlock’s body broken on the pavement. Or Sherlock falling and John running to catch him, but never able to reach him in time.  
  
The kettle switched off automatically, and John poured the water in over the teabags. As they steeped, he said, casually, “If you’d like, you can tell me about it. Or not. It doesn’t always help. But sometimes it does.” He had told Sarah – who he’d remained friends with - one or two of his dreams. She had sat there and nodded, and hadn’t flinched away, and let him squeeze her hand. As he said, it hadn’t always helped. But it hadn’t always hurt, either.  
  
He added a spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk to his tea. More milk, and two spoonfuls of sugar to Sherlock’s. He set the tea in front of Sherlock, and sat down.  
  
Sherlock stared at his tea for a few minutes, then wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. “I was in the mountains. I don’t know which mountains, maybe the Alps, maybe the Himalayas. You were there. And so was Moriarty. And Moran.” He takes a breath and unwraps one hand from around the mug and places it on the table, just far enough from John that it might be casual. John knows it isn’t. He reaches over and grabs hold of it. Sherlock tightens his grip as he goes on. “Moriarty told me that I was like him. That I didn’t have any friends. That you had forgotten me. Moran pointed his gun at you, and said that even if you hadn’t, he’d kill you soon and then you _couldn’t_ remember me. But you said that you could never forget me, that you couldn’t…” Sherlock stops and takes a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes are tightly closed again. “You told me to stop this, just for you. But I couldn’t answer you, I was frozen and… And then you went over to Moran and took his gun and pointed it at yourself, and…” His voice broke. He was shaking in earnest again. John stood up, without letting go of his hand and took the two steps that separated him from Sherlock. He cradled the back of Sherlock’s head with his free hand, running his fingers through the dark curls. Sherlock pressed his face into John’s stomach. He wrapped his arms around John’s waist and held him tightly.  
  
“I’m here, Sherlock. I’m alive, you’re alive. I’ll never leave you. I’m here.” John murmured the words, and variations of them, again and again, until they had lost their meaning, becoming simply a soothing cadence of syllables to accompany the circles his hands made on the detective’s back.  
  
The two men stayed in that position long after Sherlock had stopped shaking and his breathing had returned to normal.


End file.
